


The Promise

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Presents, Declarations Of Love, Don't copy to another site, First Christmas, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: As their first Christmas together approaches, Holmes struggles to think of a gift for Watson, while Watson deals with the memory of his brother and the loss of a dear friend.A year ago I began posting Fin de Siècle, a Victorian AU series chronicling their relationship over years, shadowed by Reichenbach. This story is an early missing episode which I had hinted at in several of the other stories. I have placed it second in the series, chronologically.This can be read as a standalone story. Each part of the series can be read on its own, but there is an overall arc to the stories that will make more sense if read in order.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 24
Kudos: 55
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	The Promise

My Watson has a grand gift of silence. One of the things I most appreciate about him is that he does not fill an empty space with talk, nor state the obvious simply to have something to say. He is not a talker. And I am not a romantic. As we grew to love one another, I found it a relief that I did not need to explain my feelings to him. We understood one another without words, I thought.

I only later realised how my assumption had wronged him. There were things about him that I did not understand, things I should have asked. The language of love may be whispered from heart to heart, but words are the mind’s best tools for understanding. I had failed to follow my own advice, to reason from evidence, not feelings.

It was a month before Christmas, our first together, and I was contemplating with gloom the days I would have to spend with my family in Kent. My brother dreaded it equally, but his sense of filial duty was greater than mine. He would stay three days, he said. I had promised to be there on the day itself, but had warned my mother that I would need to catch a late train home. I would not spend the entire week there. One day of relatives was more than enough to last me the entire year.

I mention my family so rarely, even including my older brother Mycroft, that I am certain many of my acquaintances believed I was an orphan. That is far from the truth: my father has been dead for years, but both he and my mother have multiple siblings, which results in numerous aunt, uncles, cousins, second cousins, and third cousins, removed and otherwise.

Watson had no family that I knew of; I had not spoken of mine. I was therefore reluctant to invite him to my family’s home in case that would be imposing too many relatives on him, reminding him of his own poverty of family. My own preference would have been to stay at Baker Street with him. He had spoken of walking to church on Christmas Eve, saying that he enjoyed the lessons and carols. I imagined us walking home, our arms linked, looking forward to exchanging gifts.

Until that moment, I had not even thought about a gift for him. He was the most important person in my life, and I had no idea how to express my feelings in a concrete way.

This was a problem. He is a thoughtful man, an affectionate one, and would surely have picked out something meaningful for me. I devoted time to thinking about this, running through the possibilities. He was a reader, so perhaps a book would be welcome. He was not a dandy, but might appreciate a new cravat. His boots and winter coat were worn, but I was reluctant to offer something in their place, sensing that he would be ashamed of the shabbiness of his wardrobe if I bought him something too expensive. But to give him a second-rate pair of boots or an economical coat— what would be the point? He was a man who deserved the best things.

Selecting the perfect gift preoccupied me more than any case Lestrade might have brought me. The ideas that came to mind seemed far too ordinary for what he meant to me. My gift should not be that of a mere friend. With it, I wanted it to say all the things I never had to speak out loud.

While I was puzzling over this, I began to notice that Watson’s mood was very low. Inexperienced in love, I had assumed that because we were intimate, I should know what troubled him. Should I ask? Should he not simply say if something was wrong between us? Or did he expect me to deduce what troubled him? If so, I had certainly oversold my talents.

And here was my fear: that he regretted becoming intimate with me, that he had realised the disadvantages that it laid upon him. Perhaps his colleagues and friends were encouraging him to marry, and he realised that his living arrangement would always be an object of curiosity, provoking questions about his failure to find a suitable wife. He was reluctant to say these things to me, but was troubled nonetheless.

What was between us was not marriage. Certainly it could be nothing like that for two bachelors. To outsiders, we might appear no more than good friends. To those with more salacious minds, it might seem a convenient arrangement, the sort people marked with a wink and a nod. _Even a blind man could see…_

We were lovers, but it was not mere convenience or base lust that bound us together. We had sworn our love to one another. It was a fine line we had to walk, our public appearance strictly of friendship, and our love one that had to remain behind closed doors. I hated that we had to be secret about it, but it was worth it to have him.

Watson is an honest man. Perhaps, I thought, the secrecy had become too much for him.

Much as I wanted to clear the air between us, I could not bring myself to ask him what was causing his melancholy. I berated myself: I should know what was wrong.

This put me out of sorts. Being out of sorts caused me to feel petulant. If I could not deduce the man I loved, what sort of detective was I?

I heard the front door close as he returned from an errand, wiped his boots on the door mat and hung his coat up. Then his feet were on the stairs, heavy and slow. Tired, perhaps, but weighted with something else as well.As he entered our rooms, I scanned his appearance. His expression was closed, unobtainable. Without saying a word, he sat down across from me and lit his pipe.

To prove to myself that I still knew my Watson, I smiled (a bit smugly) and said, “I see that you’ve been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office, where you dispatched a telegram.”

He nodded, but did not smile. Nor did he look amazed.

Determined that he should smile and admire me, I elaborated. “The reddish mould on your boot tells me where you’ve been, and the absence of a letter in your hand when you left the flat told me that you’d sent a wire.”

I then began to expound on soil, and ash, and other things that interested only me. Petulance apparently makes me verbose. It was as if I had a form of verbal diarrhoea, and could not stop talking about things that he clearly did not care about.

“You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae,” he remarked when I paused for breath. His lip curled into a smirk. “I’ve heard you say that any object a man uses daily will leave some impression of his individuality upon it. I wonder, what can you deduce from this?”

He handed me a watch which he had concealed in his pocket. It was a challenge. I took it eagerly, thinking that my deductions would make him smile.

I weighed it in my hand, gazed at the dial, and opened the back, examining the works with my pocket lens.

“Well, there are hardly any data,” I said, handing it back to him. “It has recently been cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts.”

“You’re right. It was cleaned before it was sent to me.”

Ah. Certainly that was why he’d been to the post-office, to pick up the package. And surely that was a letter I saw peeping out of his pocket. No telegram, then.

“The watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father. This is suggested by the monogram on the back. It is an older watch, and though valuable, not one a younger man would buy for himself. Therefore, it was your father’s, who, as I remember, has been dead for many years. It has been in your brother’s hands these last years.”

“Correct,” he said.

“He was a man of untidy habits, very careless. Though he had good prospects, he threw away his chances, lived in poverty for some time, with short periods of prosperity, and finally took to drink, which was the cause of his untimely death. That is all it reveals to me.”

I sat back and closed my eyes, awaiting his applause.

When I opened my eyes and saw the expression on his face, I was taken aback. Such a look of anger and bitterness I had never seen on my Watson.

“Unworthy,” he whispered. “This is unworthy of you, Holmes.” He sprang to his feet and began to limp around the room. “You have obviously made inquiries into my family and have discovered the history of my unhappy brother, and now pretend to deduce this from his old watch. Unkind— you are unkind—“

And then he collapsed into his chair and began to weep.

“My dear— Oh, John!” I cried, throwing myself at his feet. “Forgive me, please. I am the most aggravating of men! I assure you that I never knew you had a brother until you handed me the watch. My words have pained you, my dearest love. Please, accept my apologies.”

He wiped his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. “It is I who should apologise. He has been dead for just a year, and last week I received word from the solicitor that his debts had finally been settled and he would send me what remained. I have been brooding ever since I received that letter. We were estranged, you see, and hadn’t spoken since I before I left for Afghanistan. And when the watch arrived this morning— I opened the package and saw it, and it all came back to me. My poor brother! Oh, God!” And he wept again.

I managed to coax him into my lap and we sat in the chair, holding on to one another. “My poor boy,” I murmured. “I am so sorry, my love.”

At length he recovered himself, and stood up, straightening his clothing and smiling bleakly. “No wonder I love you.”

We spent the evening quietly. I played my violin before we went to bed, something less melancholy than usual.

The following day he had a patient to see, and I went to Scotland Yard to consult with Gregson about a case. When I returned, he was not yet home, and so I waited, telling Mrs Hudson that a cold supper would suffice.

But when the dinner hour was long past with no sign of Watson, I became worried. It was a cold night, and a freezing rain had begun to fall. I bundled myself into my coat, wrapped my scarf around my neck, and chose my deerstalker as the warmer hat option. 

Into the frigid dark I set out, bracing myself against the blast of wind that greeted me. Just as I reached the corner of Marylebone, one of my Irregulars came slipping and sliding towards me, calling my name.

“Mister ‘Olmes, sir! I’ve been sent to fetch you!”

“What’s the trouble, Tommy?”

“Mister Gallaway’s sent me. It’s Doctor Watson.”

I knew Mr Gallaway as the proprietor of a pub where Watson sometimes met with friends. “Is he ill?”

“No sir,” said Tommy. He seemed to be searching for the right word. “He’s inebricated. Tipply-like.”

“I see. Come with me, Tommy. I might need another set of arms.”

“No doubt about that,” the boy said. “Might need another set of legs as well.”

My Watson is a drinker, but I have always known him to control himself. I now was certain that his brother’s history had made him abstemious. Now his reserve had fallen, and he would need my help to right himself.

It was closing time, and most of the patrons had left or were preparing to leave, casting glances at a corner table where Watson sat, his head on his arms. As I approached, I could hear snatches of song, interspersed with sobs.

_“We twa hae run about the braes,_

_and pou'd the gowans fine;_

_But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,_

_sin' auld lang syne.”_

He has a fine voice, but drowned in tears as the song was, it was hard to hear.

“Watson,” I said, laying my hand on his shoulder. “Time to come home.”

He raised his head. “Holmes. I didna know you were here.”

“Yes, I’m here.” I motioned for Tommy to hail a cab, knowing that even the short walk home would be too much for him. “Come. Let me help you stand.”

He wasn’t a belligerent or boisterous drunk, and submitted without complaint to being hauled to his feet and supported by my arm around his shoulders. With difficulty, I wrangled him into his coat, and Tommy handed me his bowler. As we made our way across the room, I made encouraging remarks.

“Just a few more steps, my boy. Steady there— mind the chairs.”

Abruptly he pulled to a halt and refused to take another step. “My hat.”

“Here it is,” I said, taking it from his head and handing it to him.

He nodded and set it on his head again. “Mush obliged.”

In the cab he fell asleep, which was better than singing or sobbing, but I worried about getting him out of the cab and up the stairs. The cabbie was one I knew, though, and with the help of him and Tommy, we managed to get him into the flat. I tipped the driver well, and gave Tommy a half a crown.

Once they were gone, I undressed him and rolled him into our bed. Then I sat in the chair and considered him.

His brother had been dead over a year, and seeing his watch, hearing me narrate that sad history— these things were enough to break him down. I knew that insobriety runs in families, but had not known of his brother until I saw the watch. Even so, how could I have been so careless, throwing out my deductions as if it were an opportunity to show off my skills?

Silently I berated myself, watching over him as he snored and mumbled in his sleep. He cried, _Harry!_ twice and begged for forgiveness. _You should have told me,_ he said once. _I would have helped you._

And I said the same thing to myself: _You should have told me, John. I would have helped you._

In the morning I cleared the table and Mrs Hudson brought up our breakfast. I had warned her that Watson might sleep late, and probably wouldn’t eat much besides an egg and some toast. She’d made the tea stronger than usual, saying that was a good a cure as she knew.

He came into the sitting room when I had finished my own breakfast. I was looking over the newspaper without much interest, thinking of how he might wish to spend the day. Quietly, I assumed, without violins or murders or any of my bored antics.

He appeared abashed when he saw me, flushing and looking down. “I’m very sorry, old man,” he said.

“My dear Watson,” I said, and my eyes filled with tears. “It is I who am sorry.”

He sat then, and drank some tea, nibbled on a piece of toast. Then he consented to lie on the sofa, covered by a blanket. I offered him a powder for his head, but he said that it was his stomach that troubled him more, and he would take the punishment for drinking too much.

“Dearest,” I said. “I depend on you to be better and stronger than me, and you must allow me to be that for you as well when you stumble. Do not let yourself fall into despair. If you warn me when you feel in danger of falling, I will help you, just as you have helped me. Will you promise?”

“I will not do it again,” he assured me. “Last night will not be repeated.”

I thought about all the deaths he had seen in Afghanistan, and how he must have needed to suppress his feelings in order to do his job, moving on as one patient died to attend to one more likely to survive.

When people talk about _soldier’s heart_ , they generally mean the nightmares where soldiers relive the battles they have fought. Watson had suffered from these terrors when we first began to share rooms. After being struck by him once, when I tried to restrain his flailing hands, I had learned how to approach him in the throes of a nightmare. Over the months of our intimacy he had gradually improved, and I had hoped that he was cured.

This ailment was different. He was not restless during the night, but morose during the day. What I observed was simply grief, I decided, a natural feeling of loss. His brother had been gone a year; the watch had revived his grief.

A couple of weeks went by, and I was still thinking about my gift to him. It must not be something too practical, I decided. It must be personal, a memento that would not be too obvious to others. A secret talisman that he could look at and be reminded of my love for him.

In a jeweller’s shop I looked at watch chains and fobs, but dismissed the idea as too reminiscent of his brother’s watch and all that meant to him. I could not replace that love with my own; our love was of a different kind. Jewellery for men was quite limited, I saw. He spent much of his day with his cuffs rolled up, treating patients, and would undoubtedly lose cufflinks. A cravat pin was likewise out of character for him. 

The young clerk who was watching me seemed to sense my indecision.

“A present for a friend?” From his expression and tone of voice, it was clear that he understood my dilemma. “Perhaps if you could describe his tastes, I could help you find something.”

“He is… a very dear friend. Nostalgic, but practical. He prefers jewellery that is understated.”

He led me to a display of bracelets, the kind that could be worn under a cuff.

“He’s a doctor and frequently rolls up his sleeves,” I said. “I’m sure he would not want to display such a piece.”

“A ring, then?”

“I’m not sure… Perhaps it is too… intimate?”

He shook his head. “A ring worn on the small finger of the left hand is often favoured by men. Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany, wears one. It is often worn by both men and women to signal a lack of interest in marriage.” He gave me a significant look.

“I see. Is a plain band generally worn?”

“Or a small signet. It can be personalised and engraved. Gold is most popular, either yellow or white.”

“Yellow gold.” I noticed a small signet, just a single letter, and imagined how it would look on Watson’s finger. “How long does the engraving take?”

“A day, two at most.” He took the signet out of the case so I could examine it.

I held it in my palm. For a small ring, it felt heavy. On my pinkie, it was loose, but my fingers were more slender than Watson’s. “It’s to be a surprise. I will need to measure his finger to be certain it will fit.”

He smiled. “Is he a sound sleeper?”

I placed the order and promised to return with a measurement.

I returned home and found Watson sorting the mail. Several letters had arrived for me, clients requesting an audience, and I began opening them and assessing whether they were worth my time. As I perused a letter from a young governess asking for advice on a position she’d been offered, I noticed that Watson had fallen silent.

His face was pale, his expression grieved.

“What news?” I asked him.

He reached behind him for his chair and sank down, still clutching the letter. “A friend from army days, Bill Murray.”

“Is he not well?”

Watson shook his head slowly. “He is dead. His funeral was a week ago. Another friend writes to tell me so. He says… it was unexpected.”

If this man was Watson’s friend, they must have been of an age, which meant accident or illness.

“The circumstances… he says the funeral was small, only family attending because…” He looked up at me, his face stricken. “Holmes. He killed himself— with his service revolver.”

I rose and once again knelt at his chair, laying my hand on his knee. “He was a close friend?”

He nodded. “Murray was my orderly. He’s the one who saved my life when I was shot.” He raised a shaking hand to his mouth. “He saved me, Holmes. He lifted me and laid me across his horse because I was losing so much blood I couldn’t stand or walk. Oh, God, what could make him do such a thing?” His face convulsed.

I wanted to say how glad I was that Watson had never felt such despair, but I remembered when we met how sick he’d been and what pain he’d had from his wounds. I hadn’t known him well then, but even I had seen that he was barely hanging onto hope.

He has always said that I saved his life by taking him in as a flatmate, by inviting him along on cases. It made him feel useful again. I have many times wondered what would have happened if I had driven him away. And what would have happened to me? In every way, he has made my life better. I could not imagine not having him.

Looking up at me, he gave me a trembling smile. “You need not fear for me, my dear. It grieves me that he believed there was no alternative; that is why it is such a blow to me.” He sighed. “I must write a note to his wife.”

He spent the evening at his little desk, writing words of comfort to Mrs Murray. When he was done, he had me read it to see if he had expressed himself well in such a delicate and unfortunate task. As always, his words were perfect.

I watched him carefully for the next week. He seemed subdued, but steady.

While he was at his surgery I visited the jeweller again. I had decided on a plain ring, gold, with a single stone, a deep red garnet, simply set. I would have an engraving done inside the band. Watson was a man of subdued taste and would not wear anything that seemed a bit ornate.

Such a gift was risky. I knew my own feelings, and his, but to put a ring on his finger might be a heavier symbolism than he was prepared to accept. To be in love and never be allowed to acknowledge it publicly, to never be allowed the open endearments that married couples take for granted— in a thousand ways, every day, I felt myself oppressed, without any remedy. I had accepted the social restraints when we pledged ourselves to one another, and had felt glad that I had found a man who could love me in spite of the possibility of scandal and disgrace. But that did not mean I was content.

I wondered if he was facing a similar dilemma in choosing a gift for me. I do not deny that I am a hard man to please, which was why our love was such a revelatory experience to me. He might have given me nothing at all and I would not have minded. All I could think of was his face on Christmas morning, when he would see a solid proof of the depth of my love for him. That was the only gift I hoped for.

Watson’s appetite is reliable. I have remarked to Mrs Hudson that I could set my watch by his stomach. Thus I was worried when the dinner hour once more approached without a sign of Watson.

I might send a note to his surgery to see if he was delayed, I thought, but I did not want to bother him if some emergency had come up. He had told me that he would not over-indulge again, and I needed to trust his promise.

But his friend’s death had been a heavy blow to him, and coming so soon after the reminder of his brother’s passing, I wondered how he could bear it.

Mrs Hudson brought up a cold supper, and tutted about the state of our rooms. I had been pacing, throwing papers carelessly on every surface, scarcely paying attention to what I was doing.

She surveyed the room with a frown. “How am I to dust when you have covered everything up with paper?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson,” I said. “I’ll try to clean up tonight.”

“And where is the doctor? It’s not like him to miss a meal.”

I made up my mind. It might be more considerate to wait at home, trusting him to keep his promise, but if he had fallen, he would need me.

I grabbed my coat off the hooks and flew out the door without answering her.

I wandered the neighbourhood for more than an hour, berating myself for how little I understood the man I had loved for so many months. So often he had been my support, my kind reprover, sensing my moods and gently urging me to behave myself. What had I done for him? He had accepted me with all my flaws. I knew that he had a temper, but he rarely took it out on me. And I had taken his gift of acceptance as if it were deserved.

_No, Watson. Do not excuse me. I have taken you for granted. I will not do it again. You have my promise._

My greatest fear was that he had stumbled again, and not only metaphorically. Perhaps he’d tried to make his way home and had fallen into the street. Perhaps he’d been beaten and robbed, easy prey for unscrupulous men. My mind could create dozens of plausible accidents for an inebriate walking home alone. I had just rounded the corner of Baker Street for the fifth time, intending to send one of my irregulars round to the police station to recruit some help, when I saw Lestrade getting out of a cab in front of 221B.

“Mr Holmes,” he called out when I was within earshot. “You are needed.”

“Not now, Lestrade,” I said brusquely. “Watson is missing and, I fear, hurt. Whatever case you’ve brought me must wait until I find him.”

“That’s the very thing I’ve come about.”

All I said was, “Oh,” but my face must have betrayed my fears.

“He’s not hurt,” he said quickly. “We’ve given him coffee to bring him around, but he needs to sleep it off, so I’ve brought him home.”

I peered into the cab and saw Watson, asleep.

“He’s a gentleman, not the sort we usually keep overnight,” Lestrade explained. “It would be better for him to wake up in his own bed, I thought.”

I heaved a great sigh of relief and climbed into the cab to rouse him. When his eyes opened and he recognised me, he began to weep. Lestrade helped me lift him out of the cab and carry him upstairs, into our bedroom.

Lestrade said nothing as I undressed Watson and lay him in our bed.

“He can sleep here tonight,” I said. “Fewer steps to climb.”

Though it was fairly obvious that we had been sharing the bed, Lestrade merely said, “Of course.”

I followed him down to the door. “Thank you for bringing him home. I’m sorry if he created a disturbance and very glad you didn’t lock him up.”

“No worries, Mr Holmes.” He turned and gave me a nod. “Sometimes, the law is an ass.”

I had never thought of Lestrade as a friend, but I had been wrong. He wasn’t talking about the laws against public intoxication. He had guessed our secret, and even though he was a moral man, charged with enforcing the law, he saw no reason to betray us.

Having no other words for the relief that I felt, I thanked him again.

Watson was acutely embarrassed when he woke the next day, horrified that he had broken his promise to me. He did not remember much after meeting up with a couple of army friends for a drink. They had talked about Murray, he told me.

“I wish I had known of his despair,” he said. “He was my friend. I might have written to him.”

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a friend in such a way,” I said. “You cannot simply _will_ yourself not to feel what you are feeling. You are not superhuman, John.”

“But I promised you. I’m a weak man to fail so quickly after giving you my word.”

“We’re all weak in the face of death. If I ever lost you…”

He put his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. “You won’t.”

I thought of our first quarrel, when he’d insulted the article I wrote and I stormed out of the flat, determined to be rid of him. It was my brother who made me realise my mistake, pointing out to me what should have been obvious: Watson was in pain, both physically and psychically. He had seen things no man should have to witness, and his body had barely been patched up. When I heard Mycroft’s rebuke, I rushed home, fearing that he’d left me, and found him packed, ready to move out— not because I’d been rude to him, but because he felt he was not fit to live with another person. His illness, his injuries, his temper— all of these he saw through my eyes, and felt that I must be tired of living with a broken man.

I hoped to be worthy of such a man.

“I depend on you, my love,” I said. “And you must depend on me as well.”

On Christmas Eve I heard him stamping his feet on the pavement outside our door. He would be tired, I knew, and possibly emotional, thinking of all the people he’d lost— his parents, his brother, comrades and friends.

I’d conscripted Mrs Hudson to help me decorate our rooms a bit, and she’d spent the afternoon baking something that smelled wonderful before leaving for the train station. As always, she would spend the holiday with her sister in Edinburgh, but she promised that she had left us plenty of treats.

_Yes, tired_ , I thought as I heard him climbing the stairs. _But not sad._

When he opened the door, I had the fire blazing. The festive smorgasbord Mrs Hudson had prepared for us lay on the table, and I had chosen a wine I knew he liked. I picked up my violin and began to play _Hark, the Herald Angels Sing._

He let me finish one verse before taking the violin from my hands and drawing me into a kiss. “Well, you _are_ standing under the mistletoe,” he said when we paused for breath. “But I’m going to need sustenance before we engage in more festivities.”

When we had eaten supper and were sitting before the fire, finishing our wine, I drew the box out of my pocket. My heart pounding, I knelt before him.

“John, I do not know what I can give you that will express the depth of my love for you. There are days when I cannot think why you put up with me.”

He cast his eyes downward. “I think we are equally matched in our shortcomings.”

“We are equally matched in more than that,” I replied. “I want to make you a promise, John. If it were possible to make my words legally binding, I would. Please know that I mean this with all my heart. I will never leave you, John Watson. I will defend you, and protect you, and honour you all the days of my life. In sickness, in poverty, in adversity, even in death, I will not leave you. If it is possible, I will go on loving you beyond the point at which I am physically able to hold you in my arms. If there is anything beyond this world, I must believe in it because it means we will still have one another.”

I handed him the box. His eyes were full of tears as he regarded me. When he saw the ring, he took it from the box.

“There is an inscription,” I said. One word, _Together._

He read it and covered his face with his hands.

“My dear,” I said. “If you do not wish it— if it’s not something you would wear—“

He pulled me to him, weeping. “I do wish. And I will wear it with pride.”

I placed the ring on his finger. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he admired it. “It’s beautiful. I only wish I had a gift for you that meant so much.”

“I don’t need a box with a bow, John. I only need you.”

He went to his desk and returned with a flat box. “This is for you, Sherlock.” His voice shook. “With all my heart.”

When it was open, what I saw astonished me. A paperback magazine: _Beeton’s Christmas Annual. A Study In Scarlet by John H Watson._

“I wrote it for you,” he said. “You will no doubt find it romantic.”

I sat on the floor, opened to the cover story, and read: _Chapter 1. Mr Sherlock Holmes. In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army…_

I looked up at him, my mouth open.

“Well, it is no doubt rubbish,” he said, smiling nervously. “ _Ineffable twaddle_ , you might even say. I had to change the story a bit, because, well, the real story is even more romantic. Not for public consumption. I hope you like it, in spite of its defects. I’m afraid I hadn’t the funds to give you something you truly deserve.”

“John,” I said, gazing at the magazine. “John, you’ve done it.”

“What have I done?”

I pulled him off his chair, into my lap. We sat in a tangle of limbs, kissing. I pulled away at last, gasping. “People will read this story in the future, long after we are gone. You’ve made us immortal, love. We will live forever.”

“Together,” he said. “Always together.”

One cannot simply declare oneself immortal, I know. The future decides who remains. But my Watson has a skill in writing that compels. The annual sold out, and _The Strand_ bought his next three stories, sight unseen.

We walked to church that evening, his arm tucked under mine. It was a happy moment in a life together that has seen both joy and despair. But we were then, and have always been, in spite of everything, _together._

I do call Watson a _romantic._ I am one too, as he well knows.


End file.
